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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759455">snowdrops</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacedadpicard/pseuds/spacedadpicard'>spacedadpicard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blushing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Haven (Dragon Age), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Death, References to Illness, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, WHO CAN SAY?, adain is... real bad at feelings, and is also a TINY bit gay for cass MAYBE, in fact.... just...., is that a tag? is that something?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:47:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacedadpicard/pseuds/spacedadpicard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Adain Lavellan has never been very good at letting people help her carry her burdens. One night, Solas has her confront this part of herself before it tears her down--and the Inquisition with her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>snowdrops</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Is something wrong, </span>
  <span>da’lath’in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Solas’ voice is soft, almost tender, but it’s still enough to make Adain jump a foot in the air. And there she was thinking no one had noticed her slip away from the night’s festivities. It seems she isn’t half as subtle as she’d like to believe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Solas.” His name leaves her in a breath, a hand reaching up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. And then she blinks, shaking her head, looking away from him back to the sweep of the Frostbacks. In this light, they appear almost silver, dappled here and there in dark blue shadow. “No. No, I’m fine. Just tired, is all. It’s been a long few days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That it has.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. Part of her hopes he’ll leave; the other part is relieved when he comes closer, feet padding across the stone floor of the balcony. He comes to stand at her side, and something in her gives way in quiet relief; when she sighs, her shoulders ease, a knot of muscle there coming undone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waits for a moment—waits for him to say something more. But he doesn’t. And for the first time since meeting him, she finds she can’t sit in the silence between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just tired.” It occurs to her, a moment too late, that she’s said that already. “Everyone deserves to forget the Breach for the night. To forget Corypheus, and Haven, and the rifts. And I feel like…” Here, she pauses, gaze drawn down to her hand. To the Anchor: thin threads of green worming their way through her palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. Hesitates, brow furrowing, teeth catching on her lower lip. “I feel like I’m just a reminder. Of all of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to her, Solas hums, shifting his weight to lean against the balcony railing. She isn’t looking at him, but she doesn’t have to be to feel the weight of his gaze on her, drawing heat and colour to her cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what of you?” He asks finally. “Do you not deserve to forget? Only if for a night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, she laughs. It’s a mirthless sound, almost bitter. “I don’t know. But I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, she turns to look at him, and is met with quiet brown eyes, a curved brow. All at once, everything in her flushes. Her fingers curl atop the railing, thumb drumming a nervous pattern against the stonework. A drumbeat, a rhythm. A scrap of song, a fractured memory from her childhood in the clan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How can she forget? How can she forget with this thing in her palm, its constant pulse, its pull? How can she forget when, in her dreams, she lives the same image over and over again: the Chantry at Haven, crumbled and ruined, lost beneath mounds of snow and rubble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How can she forget, she wants to ask him. Instead, she just shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
“No.” A pause. “It’s not like I haven’t <em>tried</em>.” Once, she even came close. So close. A hair’s breadth away from a little peace. It was an unremarkable moment, small and forgettable in the grand scheme of things, and yet she remembers it as clearly as if it were yesterday: a cold, bright night in the Hinterlands; the warmth of the campfire; Solas’ elbow brushing her own. “But, at the end of the day, for as long as I have the Anchor—for as long as the people call me Herald—I don’t think I will ever be able to. Not really.”
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a silence, then. Familiar, and yet unbearable. Adain can feel her cheeks burning, even despite the cold mountain air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” Solas finally says. From anyone else, she wouldn’t believe it: who could hope to understand the ache of a reluctant saint? And yet, something in his tone makes her want to believe him. “And I am sorry. Sorry for the burden you have been given; I wish there was more I could say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But…” He hesitates; it’s unlike him. Adain’s gaze skips to his features, trickling over them, lingering on the scar above his brow. Then his eyes fall to her once more, and she wills herself to look away; she finds she can’t. “I think there is more to it than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More to what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another pause. Another hesitation. Finally, he says, “You have not been the same since Haven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that, realisation. Cold and hard, settling in her gut like a shard of ice. When Adain speaks next, it comes out sounding oddly—uncharacteristically—defensive, tone clipped. “You could say the same of any of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” he admits. “But that is not the subject at hand.”</span>
</p><p>
 “I am <em>fine</em>—”
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I say otherwise?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adain hears herself murmur his name—half a reprimand, and half something else entirely. Reaching up, she scrubs her hands through her hair, rubs at her eyes. When her fists come away damp with her own tears, she feels shock lance through her like a bolt of lighting. Dimly, she hears herself laugh. A shaky thing, unfamiliar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adain…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What is that, she wonders? What is that in his voice? Pity? Fear? Something else? She shakes her head. “Don’t—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You carry a burden few people can hope to understand—” Pity, she thinks. Definitely pity. It pulls another laugh from her, ugly and glinting, sparking and sputtering like a rift. Nonetheless, Solas continues, relentless. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” No what?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is why we are all here. To help you lift it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know I have not always been the most approachable—” Dimly, she realises his hand is on her shoulder, blurry in the corner of her vision. She’s not even sure how long it’s been there. “But… you can talk to me, da’lath’in. If you think it would help.”</span>
</p><p>
 “I <em>can’t</em>.”
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because the moment she starts, she fears she won’t be able to stop. All the ache in her a river, a torrent, dark and terrible, and with no way of stopping it. It would start as a trickle; a slow stream, made sluggish by the bite of winter. But soon, it would pick up speed. It would grow, faster, and wider, and more relentless, until— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until there was nothing left inside of her. Until she was hollow, empty, body curling in on itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, she only says, “Because it doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it matters. Nothing matters more.” A pause. She blinks at him, lashes wet and heavy. He blinks back, lips pursed, and then adds, “You are the Inquisitor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, she laughs. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says, straightening now, hastily rubbing a forearm over her eyes. “I am the Inquisitor, and the people </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. They need me to complete my mission. They need me to be strong, dependable. They need to be able to lean on me—”</span>
</p><p>
“And they <em>can’t</em>.” His voice is sharper, now; Adain finds, unexpectedly, that she almost misses the pity. At least it didn’t threaten to leave her bleeding. “Not when you yourself are in danger of toppling over. So—tell me.”
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tell me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A demand. Or a question. Or a plea. Regardless, the words leave him, and Adain feels it: something snapping within her, somewhere behind her sternum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. It’s everything.” Her voice is quiet. Hiccuping. When Solas doesn’t say anything, she takes it as a sign to continue. “I can’t—do it. I can’t do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
“<em>Any</em> of it. I’m not like… Cullen, or Cassandra. I can’t command an army, or—or—” She thinks of Cassandra. The quiet surety with which she holds her blade; the quiet certainty with which she holds herself. Cassandra steps into a room, and the room goes silent. 
</p><p>
  <span>“You are the Inquisitor,” Solas says again, voice soft. “The Herald of Andraste. People look to you for other things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before anything else, I am a healer. That was what I did, back when I was with my clan. Before I could wield a sword, before I had so much as raised a shield, I healed people. I helped them. Or, I tried to. I couldn’t save them all.” Last year, the winter had been long and cruel. One of the children had fallen sick with frost-cough. The poor thing shivered in her sleep, but her brow was hot to the touch, her clothes soaked through with sweat. Adain remembers the smell of elfroot. Remembers crouching at the girl’s bedside until her legs lost all feeling, humming lullabies under her breath, old tales of the Creators. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adain blinks. Shakes the memory away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I healed people,” she says again. “I lost some. But—” Nothing compared to the number she lost at Haven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven.” She’s crying again. Did she ever stop? It’s just as she thought: the river in her. The ache with no end. “I saw more people die in that one day than in all the years of my life. And the worst part?” Worse, even, than the blood. Than the dreams. Whenever she closes her eyes, she can conjure it: the smell of death; her hands, covered in red. “It was my fault. All of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” What is that? Shock? Pain? She looks at him, blinking back her tears, and his face is contorted, brow creased in a frown. “That is—”</span>
</p><p>
“All those people—they were there for <em>me</em>. For the Herald of Andraste and her Inquisition, her play at importance. We—”
</p><p>
  <span>“Adain—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—weren’t ready.” She doesn’t hear him. She doesn’t hear him, or won’t, or can’t—not over the sound of rushing water, loud in her ears. “We weren’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span> to ready. Our forces weren’t large enough, Haven little more than a collection of—of <em>shacks</em>, but I pushed, and I pushed, and—”
</span></p><p>
  <span>“Da’lath’in, stop. Look at me.” A touch to her cheek; his hand feels cold. Adain almost cringes away. Instead, she just closes her eyes, screwing them shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was a healer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still are. Look at me.” In response, she only closes her eyes tighter, shaking her head no. He sighs, quiet and fluttering, pulling his hand away from her cheek. Only then, it moves to find her own, fingers curling gently about her wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Adain’s eyes blink open. Without a word, she stares down at their hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My people had a saying long ago. ‘The healer has the bloodiest hands.’” So saying, he turns her hand over, the pad of his thumb smoothing along her palmline. Her breath snags in her throat, loud and obvious, lashes dark shadows against damp cheeks. “You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks of the girl with frost-cough: the rattle of her lungs, the shaking of her thin little shoulders. Humming songs of the Evanuris: Falon’Din, with snowdrops in his hair, a dead deer gathered up in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Is she still crying? Or has the river run dry?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, then, why do you?” A touch to the underside of her jaw. Just enough to tip her head to face him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, she meets his gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a way, it feels like giving up, like an admission. But mostly, it feels like a relief. His face softens a little, mouth turning up at the corners, and something in her quietens. That rush of water, dimming to a low hum, little more than background noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” His voice is softer than a murmur. “Just look at me. Ground yourself in the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falon’Din, snowdrops in his hair. In her dreams, she watches him lay down the deer. Watches it wake, dance on dainty feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alright,” she gets out. He’s still holding her hand, she realises, somewhat belatedly. Looking down, she blinks at the creases of her palm, her curled fingers, and is vaguely surprised when she can’t find a single drop of red. Huffing a shaky breath, she looks back up, eyes searching his for a moment. “I’m alright. I’m—” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>Sorry</em>. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. She bites it back, and instead of saying anything at all merely tangles their fingers together, squeezing once. Solas blinks, looking down, but her eyes fall instead to the points of his ears, pink in the cold.
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, he squeezes in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To piece together a broken world—it is a thankless task, and a dangerous one. All those shards and shattered fragments. But I know, all of us know, that you can do it. That you </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> do it.” Another squeeze to her hand. Adain swallows, heart thumping awkwardly behind her ribs. “There will be more blood before the end—but by no fault of your own, da’lath’in. You are not responsible for what happened at Haven.” Some would beg to differ, Adain thinks, remembering the rumble of an avalanche, endless fields of snow. Some would— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, he squeezes her hand. Draws her out of herself, like poison from a wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The only blood on your hands,” he finishes, voice softer than ever, “is that which you have tried to staunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falon’Din, shaking the snowdrops from his hair. Where they fall on the ground, they glitter like stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” What? Sighing, she nods, reaching up to push back a strand of hair that has slipped out from behind her ear. “I’ll try to believe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, he smiles. It strikes her as… tired. For a moment, he looks old, weary and drawn. “I know. And that’s all I can ask.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, silence. She’s not sure which of them first let go of the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But for now, I have said all that I came to. And you are tired. I should go, and leave you in peace.” So saying, Solas takes a step away—only to notice Adain falter, her lips pursing, brows bent. He blinks at her, hesitating before, somewhat awkwardly, adding, “Unless… you would prefer I did not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it is Adain’s turn to hesitate. “I… don’t want to be alone. Not right now. I—” She thinks of rivers. One false step on one slippery stone, and a less fortunate traveller might find themselves swept away. “Don’t really want to be left alone with my thoughts, I guess. But I don’t really want to deal with the others right now, either.” They’re lovely, she thinks. But loud. Joyful. And the last thing she wants is to— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been trying to… do some reading,” she adds after a moment. “But the handwriting in these books is—I end up with a headache. You’re a better reader than I am, so I thought—I wondered—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can help.”</span>
</p><p>
At that, gentle relief. Adain finds it within herself to smile. For a moment, things feel normal, as if she wasn’t just spilling a river, her hand in his. “Ma melava halani.”
</p><p>
Solas smiles at her. A ghostly thing. “Ara melava son’ganem.”
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you very much for reading! i hope you enjoyed. please do leave a little comment, if you feel so inclined.</p><p>adain is actually one of my (many) d&amp;d characters who i (inevitably) ended up recreating in dragon age: inquisition. solas' lines to blackwall about the healer having 'the bloodiest hands' always reminded me of my girl, and i just HAD to put all that somewhere. maybe one of these days i'll write some more about these two...</p><p>credit goes to tumblr user fenxshiral for all of the elvish phrases used above:</p><p>da'lath'in: little heart<br/>ma melava halani: thank you so very much; literally, "may you have great blessings"<br/>ara melava son’ganem: you're welcome; literally, "my time is well-spent"</p></blockquote></div></div>
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